


Midwinter Nights

by venvephe



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Christmas, M/M, Unilock, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-04 21:53:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venvephe/pseuds/venvephe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock ignored the ache in his chest that was steadily deepening with the impending end of the term and the beginning of the winter holiday - the beginning of their time apart. Dwelling on the thought was unbearable, which was illogical to an irritating extent; he had spent most of his life without knowing John, and he would see him again when the spring term started. But the heightening tension between them and the precious, frightening threads of something more that trickled through their shared glances - it felt like they were coming up on a precipice, with the looming deadline of the holiday, and Sherlock had no idea what he was going to do.</p>
<p>A uni!lock Christmas AU written for the lovely forsciencejohn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midwinter Nights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [forsciencejohn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/forsciencejohn/gifts).



> Written for my beloved Meg, for the PRR/XXXMasGangBang Secret Santa! She asked for some uni!lock Johnlock around Christmas and I obliged with some pining, a lot of snow, and a happy ending full of smut. Un-beta'd and un-britpicked, and I'll admit to having only cursory knowledge of British education, any and all errors are my own. Enjoy!

“On old Olympus’ towering top,” Sherlock enunciated clearly, all posh vowels and crisp consonants, as he dropped into the chair beside John in their tucked-away corner of the library, “A friendly viking grew vines and hops.”

“Olfactory, Optic, Oculomotor, Trochlear,” John listed, “I’ve got this, you know, I have been studying - Trigeminal, Abducens, Facial... er, Va- umm, Va-”

Sherlock chuckled, rummaging through his bag to dig out his Chemistry text and laptop, “You’ve got this, indeed. Would it help to use a different Mnemonic? I believe Bill likes Oh, Oh, Oh, To Touch And Feel A Virgin’s-”

“Vagus!” John interrupted, smothering Sherlock’s words with his own whisper, giggling, “Vagus, Glossopharyngeal, Vestibulocochlear, Accessory, Hypoglossal!”

“Very good,” Sherlock grinned at him, pleased. Their knees knocked together under the table, and Sherlock purposely tapped John’s foot with the toe of his shoe, “You’ll make a decent doctor yet, once you know your way around the body.”

“I do know my way around the body,” John raised his eyebrows, peering up at Sherlock through his blond fringe. The eye contact was electric, and for a moment Sherlock couldn’t breathe through the stifling tension in the air between them.

But then John grinned, easily, and patted Sherlock on the shoulder. “How did your lab go? Blow up Anderson again, did you?”

“Unfortunately not,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, feigning at disappointment in the way he knew would make John laugh. It did. “And have you moved on from memorizing the cranial nerves?”

“Yes, now that I’ve got them through my head,” John said, flipping his text between one page and another. Sherlock snorted, and John raised his head to smile at Sherlock, who kicked John gently a second time for the atrocious attempt at wordplay.

“Ouch,” John laughed, “Corporal _pun_ -ishment.”

“Shut up,” Sherlock said, though there was no venom behind the words, “We’re in a library, for god’s sake.”

“You could have studied at home, at the flat,” John pointed out, shifting so that his right forearm and Sherlock’s left pressed together as they sat side-by-side. Sherlock looked over at him, but John’s blonde head was nestled in his anatomy text, and he didn’t meet Sherlock’s eyes. The air sparked with undercurrents of tension, and Sherlock fought down the ripple of nervous pleasure in his belly.

Sherlock hummed, opening the lid of his laptop and powering it on and settling himself more comfortably in his seat. “You were here,” he said, as if that was the only explanation he needed.

The corner of John’s lips quirked and his eyes crinkled at the edges; something warm slid into Sherlock’s chest, like honey, knowing that his words pleased John.

 

 

 

•

 

It was snowing when they left the library a few hours later, John finally assured that he was adequately prepared for his upcoming exam. Sherlock knew that John was smart, but gave himself little credit for the fact when he compared himself to Sherlock’s genius. Helping him study was one of the best ways to boost John’s confidence with the material he was learning, and Sherlock secretly savored every extra moment that he got to spend with his flatmate.

John was such a - surprise, really. He hadn’t expected to like the student Stamford had introduced to him as a possible flatmate, let alone hit off a friendship so quickly. Between John’s frequent rugby practices and Sherlock’s tendency to coop himself up in the Chem lab, they hadn't see each other very much for the first two weeks of term. It wasn’t until John’s courseload had gotten more rigorous that he kept later hours and discovered that Sherlock’s schedule was even more skewed, that his flatmate was up at all manners of unreasonable hours doing whatever he saw fit - homework or not, and from there the kindling of an amicable friendship had been set afire. It wasn’t unusual at all, now, for Sherlock to find John in their preferred corner of the library and study with him after a class or lab, even though he was free to return to their flat.

“You aren’t going to tell me what experiment you had to put up with in Biochem today?” John asked as they plodded home through the grey London streets, leaving dark footprints in the thin layer of snow that had already formed on the pavement.

“Tedious,” Sherlock replied, pulling his scarf into a better position for protecting his mouth against the sting of the biting wind, “You’ll find out for yourself when you take Biochemistry, next semester.”

“Ta,” John rolled his eyes, “I hope you’ve penciled in study sessions with me, for that; I know I’m going to need it. Even _you_ whine about it, it's not going to be pleasant at all.”

“I have nothing against the noble study of Biochemistry,” Sherlock raised his eyebrows and John snorted at him, “It has _Chemistry_ in the name, after all, and that is what I am studying. It’s the other students that give me cause to complain.”

“Of course,” John agreed, though Sherlock could see amusement in his blue-bright eyes, “Heaven forbid that Anderson leaves this university with an actual degree.”

“You have no idea,” Sherlock sighed dramatically, and John’s laugh filled the air between them with a puff of mist. Their shoulders rubbed as they walked home side-by-side, huddled into their own coats but drawn like moths towards each other’s presence.

 

 

 

•

 

“Look!” John trampled snow in on the soles of his boots, and flakes were thick in his golden hair, melting and leaving darker patches. He pushed his exam into Sherlock’s view, blocking the glow of his computer screen. Sherlock squinted, and then looked up at John with a small smile.

“I told you,” he said, “Which mnemonic did you use? I suppose it doesn’t matter, as you clearly remembered it all-”

“Thanks to you,” John grinned, leaning down until his head was almost level with Sherlock’s and wrapping one arm around the taller man’s shoulders, “Don’t think that you can get out of being my study buddy now, Sherlock Holmes, now that I’ve seen what your magic can do.”

“You did all the studying yourself,” Sherlock pointed out, but his argument wasn’t even half-hearted, distracted as he was by the rasp of John’s hair against his cheek and the hand cool from the wintery air outside resting on his shoulder. “And there’s no such thing as magic.”

“Your genius studying strategies, then,” John pulled away, and Sherlock was achingly aware of the sudden loss of warmth. John shook the water out of his hair and hung up his coat, toeing ungracefully out of his snow-covered boots at the door. He pinned his good exam grade to the fridge with a magnet, and then plopped onto their sofa with an exhausted sigh. “Thank goodness that is over.”

“How many more to go?” Sherlock asked, though he knew the answer well enough.

“Three more exams, in the next week and a half,” John scrubbed a hand over his tired eyes, shifting sideways on the sofa to lie across it and jamming their union flag pillow over his face. “I’m not sure I’m going to survive it,” he admitted, voice muffled beneath the fabric.

“Don’t be dramatic,” Sherlock said, and John barked out a laugh from underneath his pillow.

“If you study as you did for this exam, you can do so with the others,” Sherlock continued, and John lifted the pillow to stare at him blearily.

“There are no mnemonics for advanced calculus, Sherlock,” he sighed. He stuffed this pillow under his head, and Sherlock noticed that his hair had become adorably ruffled and a quick surge of affection left him blinking at his screen, unsure of what he had just been about to type.

Sherlock shook himself a little, the sound of keys quickly filling their small flat once more.

“Not if you lack imagination,” he told John, and John’s laugh was sleepy but content.

 

 

 

•

 

The first morning that they awoke to find their windowsills dusted with snow, and the campus greens beyond turned white, John had emerged from his room with a truly hideous tangle of fairy lights that he had demanded Sherlock’s assistance in stringing up.

That was weeks ago already, on the Thursday before the last weekend before the end of term, and Christmas had crept up on them as stealthily as their finals had - or so John bemoaned.

“It’s my favorite time of year,” he told Sherlock as they bundled into a laughable number of layers to combat the icy cold outside, jumper and coat and scarf and hat and gloves - all of which were in appropriate holiday colors, for John - and John grunted as he laced his boots, “But it always seems to go so quickly, after the end of November - what with finals- ”

Sherlock put a steadying hand on John’s elbow as he finished shimmying into his boots, telling himself that he wasn’t staring at the way John’s arse moved in his jeans. John glanced up at him, grateful, and Sherlock was glad that his scarf was pulled all the way up to his cheeks, and that soon he could blame the flush on the sting of the cold.

They left the fairy lights on as they headed out, the faint glow catching on the frost that had formed on their windows in delicate patterns that Sherlock could see even from the street, when there wasn’t snow to cloud the view. It wasn’t snowing, tonight, but only because the cold was so sharp that it drove all moisture from the air and left their lips chapped and their eyes blinking at the burn of it. John’s pub was only two streets away - a quick walk turned a journey in the weather, but one he was willing to make because it would be just the two of them for another night.

Sherlock ignored the ache in his chest that was steadily deepening with the impending end of the term and the beginning of the winter holiday - the beginning of their time apart. Dwelling on the thought was unbearable, which was illogical to an irritating extent; he had spent most of his life without knowing John, and he would see him again when the spring term started. But the heightening tension between them and the precious, frightening threads of something more that trickled through their shared glances - it felt like they were coming up on a precipice, with the looming deadline of the holiday, and Sherlock had no idea what he was going to do.

It wasn’t too crowded at the pub - Sherlock wasn’t surprised, it was finals week and the pub was known for being haunted with the local students - so they were able to take a tall table by the windows without any problem. They shed their outerwear, John’s ridiculous hat revealing a frizzed head of hair that made John sigh and attempt to pat it down. He headed for the bar as Sherlock was still deciding whether or not to remove his scarf, and he re-tied it around his neck before pulling off his leather gloves. John told him the blue-grey color was fetching, once, and in sentiment Sherlock left it on.

Sherlock watched John. It had become a bit of a hobby, one Sherlock indulged in often. The light was dim in the pub, but John’s dirty blonde hair still glinted an underlying gold. John wasn’t the tallest, or most muscular, or best looking man in the pub - even with the small cross-section of humanity that it currently held, John landed solidly but not uncomfortably in the middle. He was normal in a comforting way, a way that Sherlock would never have guessed would hold his interest or capture the frayed pieces of his heart that he had, reluctantly, come to admit that he possessed.

John returned with a pint for himself and a whiskey and soda for Sherlock, setting them down with a smile before settling into his own seat. “I ordered chips,” he said, wiping his running nose on the back of his hand and eyeing Sherlock with a look somewhere between serious, fond and exasperated, “And you know they come in a giant basket, here, so you’re going to help me finish them.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes as a matter of principle, because John enjoyed his sarcasm and he found himself, illogically, adjusting his habits to suit John’s expectations of him. Even under his layers of long sleeves and jumpers, Sherlock could see the muscles of John’s upper arms bunching and flexing as he crossed his arms on the sticky tabletop. He watched Sherlock take a sip of his drink, nodding that it was good, before John took a swig of his own and then dropped his forehead down onto the table with a muffled thud.

“You survived Anatomy,” Sherlock reminded him, “And your lab course is a practical, not a test; that only leaves Biochemistry-”

John gave a muffled giggle that turned into a groan, and he shook his head, “And _Pathology,_ yeah. Don’t suppose you know any other mnemonics?”

“The internet does,” Sherlock pointed out, and John raised his head to sip heartily from his beer again, tipping his chin to concede the point.

“Yeah, but I’m not sure even the internet has the jump on you, sometimes,” John said, “Are you sure about Chemistry? With your memory you could easily be a doctor, or a pathologist-”

“I’m sure,” Sherlock interrupted, grimacing as he sipped his drink, more at the idea than anything else, “Doctors and pathologists and their ilk-”

“Oi!”

“-Have to deal with people,” Sherlock continued, rolling his eyes, “Really not my area.”

“So you’ve said,” John smiled, and Sherlock had to fight down the rush of warmth in his chest as he saw the affection radiating from John’s face. He both did and didn’t want to see it, the twin sensation bending his mind; it was too easy to see what he wanted there, rather than what really was - confirmation bias.

And John could be affectionate without being - well, more.

But Sherlock wanted more.

They sat in silence for a few moments as they thought, absorbing the relaxing, quietly humming atmosphere of the pub, before John leaned over and clinked his glass to Sherlock’s, wiping the foamy mustache that had formed on his upper lip from his last sip of beer.

“What’s this, then?” Sherlock asked.

John shrugged, “Cheers.”

“To what?” he raised an eyebrow, dutifully waiting to take a sip of his drink as John made a show of thinking through his answer, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“To the end of bloody finals,” John laughed, finally, “God knows it can’t come soon enough. To a good term, all and all. And...to us.”

Sherlock stared, blinking, overcome with the strange sensation of his lips glued together and his throat too tight to draw breath. John’s smile flickered at Sherlock’s silence, and he flushed, taking a sip of his beer to cover for his sudden embarrassment.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, hoping his voice didn’t sound as hoarse to John as it did to his own ears, “To us.”

John brightened, grinning again, “You have to admit that it worked out amazingly well, for two blokes introduced at the start of term. I can’t imagine having anyone else as my best mate.”

“Y-yes,” Sherlock leaned back in his chair, lowering his gaze as he swept away the condensation forming on his glass, “The feeling is mutual.”

They were saved from their sudden onset of pink-faced admissions by the chips arriving at their table. John dug in heartily, raising his eyebrows and looking pointedly at Sherlock until he did the same.

They spent the rest of the evening talking over good food and good drink, and - both of them could agree with smiles, by their third drinks - good company.

 

 

 

•

 

Sherlock had to spend all of Saturday in the Chemistry building on one of his lab finals, and didn’t see John until the evening, when they reconvened in the library again for another study session. When John’s blinking had increased to the point where his eyes were closed more than they were open, Sherlock shuffled them both into their jackets and out into the snow. The walk was cold and dark and full of grumbling and scuffing feet, but they made it home at a brisk pace. They ordered curry back at 221B, and studied and studied some more.

John’s goodnight, when he went up the stairs to his own room, was sleepy but lingering. Sherlock murmured a quiet reply and tried not to be achingly aware of John’s sustained gaze on the length of his back, before John turned fully and the stairs creaked under his weight.

Sherlock didn’t feel like he could breathe properly again for some time, until his chest stopped aching - which was long after John’s movements upstairs had stilled and his soft, even snoring floated down the narrow stairway.

 

 

 

•

 

Sunday night found John asleep on the sofa, an open pathology text resting haphazard on his chest. The short table in front of the sofa was littered with empty mugs of tea, and John’s hair was cow-licked from his shuffling and re-settling as he had tried to get comfortable over the course of the night.

Sherlock settled a blanket over his form, slipping the book out from under John’s resting hands, and tried not to notice the rapid beating of his own pulse as he smoothed a hand over John’s shoulder.

 

 

 

•

 

“When are you leaving?”

Sherlock looked up from his laptop, to where John was perched at his laptop at the nearby desk. He had his hands folded in front of him and was attempting polite interest without seeming overly eager for an answer. Sherlock could still read the lines of nervous tension in John’s shoulders and neck.

“For winter hols,” John clarified when Sherlock continued to observe him, “I know you’re out of your last exam in the afternoon.”

“At three,” Sherlock replied, confirming John’s suspicions, “But I won’t be leaving until the morning.” He couldn’t help but grimace at the idea; winter hols meant Christmas, the Holmes estate and - as much as uni was mildly interesting at best, John was here.

Well, he wouldn’t be, either, but 221B was home now as long as John was in it.

“Right, me too,” John sighed, relief creeping into his voice. Sherlock bit his lip to distract himself from the hope rushing through his chest. John went back to his hen-peck typing, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and Sherlock forced himself to look away before he started doing the same.

He’d get one more evening with John before they departed.

 

 

•

 

It was a good evening. Sherlock’s exam had been tedious and John’s last one brutal, but survivable; they celebrated with dim sum (Sherlock’s idea) and Bond films (John’s idea, and Sherlock agreed reluctantly on the count that it will mean they could be pressed together on the sofa) and they relaxed, boneless, drained from the stress of the past two weeks leading up to this - the end.

John bantered with him, lightly, when Sherlock complained about the film, but they were more talking than watching it seriously. Their brains were too fried to absorb the details of the plot properly, content to watch the action unfold - though Sherlock couldn’t help pick apart the particularly flawed logics or physics at what John deemed “the best bits.”

They were a line of solid warmth, where they were pressed together from thigh to shoulder, sitting side by side. As the film progressed Sherlock let his long limbs drift, until John heaved a wry sigh and nudged Sherlock's leg more fully over his lap, so it didn't dangle over the edge.

Sherlock tried to watch John out of the corner of his eye, tried to read John's mind from the angle of his chin and the tired but content droop of his eyelids, but it wasn't any use. He was too afraid of seeing what his heart desperately wanted, rather than the truth.

Sentiment was such a sticky, entangling business.

As Sherlock had predicted, John fell asleep not even halfway into the second Bond film. He slumped into Sherlock's silk-clad shoulder. Each of John's exhales feathered a warm puff of air that Sherlock could feel through the thin layers of tee-shirt and dressing gown, and it warmed him considerably more than was logical. He didn't have the strength to push John away or settle him, asleep, on a different part of the sofa.

Midnight was nearing, and Sherlock was slightly amazed he’d managed to stay awake so long himself; for all John complained that he didn’t sleep enough, the truth of the matter was that Sherlock’s brain ran hot and fast until the end of the semester, when he crashed and slept long enough to almost term as hibernation. He’d tried to explain that to John, but his flatmate had just laughed. Perhaps it was the ball of frizzling tension in his gut that kept him awake still - the knot that made it feel like sparks were dancing across his skin when he brushed close to John around the flat, or that made his heart beat faster now, watching John’s eyelashes flutter minutely as he slept on.

“John,” Sherlock murmured, letting the sound rumble deep and soft in his chest. John didn’t move or wake except to shuffle a little closer into Sherlock’s warmth, and Sherlock didn’t resist the temptation to lean his cheek on the soft hair at the crown of John’s head. He smelled masculine and clean, a bit like the shampoo he kept in the shower, but with an underlying musky warmth that was all his own.

“John,” he sighed again, speaking as quietly as he dared, “Were I not already such a fool for you, I’d say that you were all I want for Christmas.”

John’s even breathing continued uninterrupted, and Sherlock sat with him in the peaceful warmth of the sitting room until the mantle clock clicked over to midnight, and reluctantly withdrew. He was cold almost instantly a chill that sank beyond his cooling pajamas that had warmed from contact with John’s skin, and he was rewarded with a sleepy, bright smile when he shook John’s shoulder to wake him so he could go to sleep upstairs.

Sherlock returned to the sofa, letting the lingering heat soak into his back from where they had been sitting.

 

 

 

•

 

At three in the morning, there was a noise on the stairs.

John shuffled into their sitting room blearily, scuffing the bottoms of his slippers on the worn wood and ratty rug and rubbing at his eyes. His eyelashes look pale in the light filtering in the windows, an ashy gold from the streetlights that is muted by the dense curtain of falling snow. Sherlock hadn’t moved from his reclined position on the sofa, though he was curled now instead of stretched elegantly along it. John must have sensed the vulnerability of his pose, even though Sherlock was facing out into the room rather than towards the wall and the back of the sofa.

But Sherlock hadn’t been sulking, not in the same sense as he was wont to do; he had traced meaningless symbols into the supple, tired leather under his hands, watched as the steady flakes of snow have increase their number over the hours, listened to the flat creak and groan as the pipes filled with heat and the house settled in the cold.

He had been thinking, pacing the corridors of his mind and hoping beyond hope that he could find the courage to mount the seventeen steps up to John’s room. He couldn’t let things linger as they had been, the casual touches and fond smiles that had filled their flat with increasing tension. His nerves felt at war, torn in between inaction and taking the step forward that would, in his mind, irreversibly change things.

And John - somehow, John knew without knowing what Sherlock needed. It was beyond the scope of Sherlock’s brilliance, to understand John Watson, but he appreciated him all the same.

“Hey,” John said, exhaustion seeping into his voice, “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

Sherlock shook his head mutely, the soft crush of his curls against the sofa rustling with his movement. John blinked away his drowsiness at Sherlock’s response, shuffling closer and dropping on to the unoccupied end of the sofa. He pulled up his legs and tucked his hands between his thighs and knees, resting his mouth on one knee as he glanced, sidelong, at Sherlock’s prone form. His gaze was a warm weight, one that makes Sherlock’s stomach clench with anticipation.

“What you said earlier,” John began, and Sherlock’s fingers twitch, “Did you…?”

He trailed off and Sherlock’s lips pursed, silence reigning in the cool room.  It was a breathless sort of quiet, the snow blanketing the world outside in stillness and white that made this almost surreal. John had heard him, had heard his confession in his drowsy, half-asleep state. Sherlock resisted the blush that colored his cheeks, full mouth pulled into an indeterminable expression somewhere between pleased and nervous.

Sherlock finally sat up, dressing gown pooling around him in a slippery puddle of blue silk. The colors were washed out, dim in the darkness, but John was caught in the half-light of the street lamps and his hair was a burnished, bright gold.

Sherlock mirrored John’s pose, resting his lower back against the arm of the sofa and wrapping his hands around his knees.

“I meant it,” Sherlock admitted, softly, “It took some time to admit to myself.”

“You never said anything,” John whispered, his eyes tender, not accusatory. Curious.

“You are - the closest and dearest friend I have ever had or could have hoped to have, John. It’s a friendship I am unwilling to risk, when the consequences are so unknown to me,” Sherlock cleared his throat, keeping his eyes fixed on the expressions flickering across John’s face.

John didn’t reply immediately, parsing Sherlock’s words with a gentle frown - he was thinking, considering his words. Sherlock was grateful, in that instant, that John was making the effort to take him seriously instead of dismissing his worries.

He grimaced, finally, licking his lips, “Yeah, I - I understand that. But we’re best mates, Sherlock, I really can’t believe that there is anything you could have said that would have-”

“There was,” Sherlock called, and John snorted, frustrated.

“See? This is what you do. When you think you can’t have something,” John said, turning to face him fully, “When you think you don’t deserve to have something. I don’t know why - but you do. You box away any opportunity that you see as a risk, you don’t allow yourself to take a leap that could be good for you.”

“To follow your atrocious metaphor,” Sherlock started, and John narrowed his eyes - a substitute, Sherlock knew, for rolling them - “Leaping takes a kind of courage I don’t have, John. Not when the outcomes are weighed against each other, and the logical conclusions end in pain - in falling.”

John sighed, shaking his head, “Perhaps that’s where we differ, then. I know you’re smarter than I am, Sherlock - you can follow things to those logical conclusions. But I can’t,” John’s face pinched in pain, “I have to go through the messy steps, and the pain, and the moment of freefall without knowing which direction I’ll go. That’s a part of life.”

“You’re more courageous than I am, then,” Sherlock told him, hands clenching around each other in a bright, white-knuckled grip. His heart beat in his chest like an eager drum, as if it was the organ of another sense that could feel the rising tension and the tight-strung implications hanging between them - that could feel the anticipation coiling inside of him and the buzz of adrenaline that preceded his mouth shaking free of the shackles of his mind.

“I can only be courageous for myself,” John scrubbed a hand over his face, blinking at Sherlock in the low light, “You have to meet me halfway.”

Sherlock didn’t respond, could barely breathe past the tight lump in his throat, the blood in his ears crashing like waves as he met John’s honest, open eyes.

“You...heard me,” Sherlock mumbled, managed to force out in an awkward tumble of words. What more was there to say, when John heard him lay himself bare? John shook his head with a small smile, looking up through his eyelashes at his flatmate.

“I think I know what I heard, but it would mean more if you told me while I wasn’t mostly asleep,” John said. His smile faded, though the warmth never left his eyes, as Sherlock hesitated over what to say. _Meet me halfway._

“I did come down here, Sherlock,” John whispered, “Please.”

John knew, or had a good idea, of how Sherlock felt and - and John came downstairs. Returned to him. Sherlock was suddenly dizzy with the thought; John would not have come downstairs in the middle of the night before the winter holiday to reject what he thought he’d heard Sherlock whisper.

John felt it too, the way they fit seamlessly together, whether they were speaking or walking or knocking knees under a table or texting during lectures. He felt the pull when they brushed elbows, when they leaned close to whisper, the flare in the bottom of his stomach when they smiled at each other. He felt the ache of saying goodnight, the heaviness of parting and the lightness of returning to each other’s company at the end of the day. John-

_“John_ ,” Sherlock choked, trembling with the realization, the final piece he’d been missing - though how, how he couldn’t say.

“Yeah,” John chuckled sheepishly, ducking his head and then staring again, eyes impossibly blue, “ _Sherlock_.”

Sherlock launched at John, the distance between them suddenly too much to bear, and they collided in a mess of tangled limbs as Sherlock pressed his mouth to John’s. Despite the cold John was all warmth, wrapping an arm around Sherlock to anchor them as they rocked backwards from Sherlock’s momentum, the leather sofa creaking and groaning. John’s lips were soft and giving, moving against his own with an enthusiasm that Sherlock readily returned, heaving a sigh that was almost a sob as his brain chanted  _finally, finally_.

John shifted them without breaking the kiss, coaxing Sherlock’s body as he did his lips; a nudge here and then there, and they were woven together, John’s knees framing Sherlock’s and Sherlock felt so at home there, so in love with the way John supported him even in this small way. John was the anchor if Sherlock was the wind in the sails, only together could they forge the best course forward.

Sherlock pulled away to breathe, looping his arms around John’s neck to keep him close and pressing their foreheads together, keeping his eyes pressed closed as he breathed John in. John’s hands stroked his waist, little circles that were soothing despite the rapid pulse hammering in his veins, the adrenaline coursing through him still. His fingers tightened, and John laughed.

“Sherlock,” he sighed contentedly, and heat sang through Sherlock’s belly when John’s lips ghosted over his as he spoke, “I’m not going anywhere.”

It wasn’t true, the faraway, rational part of Sherlock’s mind piped up petulantly, but in the warm, tight circle of John’s arms, Sherlock’s heart believed him.

Sherlock exhaled shakily, “I was afraid-”

“I know,” John quieted him, fingers tangling in the dense curls at the base of Sherlock’s skull, “I know, it’s all right. It’s all right, now.”

John kissed away Sherlock’s tremors, peppering his cheeks and neck and nose and forehead with the warm press of his lips, over and over until Sherlock could breathe again, his chest wasn’t compacting in on itself and instead was light but full, warm.

“I was worried, too,” John admitted, “I could never find the words to say - and I was never sure you felt the same way-"

Sherlock snorted against John’s neck, where he’d ducked his head, and John tutted at him for interrupting, “- but god, Sherlock, I needed to have this out before we went away on Christmas holiday.” John’s grip on him tightened, momentarily, and Sherlock squeezed back until John’s shoulders lost their tension and his arms curled firmly but not too tightly around the expanse of Sherlock’s back.

“We will be returning again after the New Year, John,” Sherlock said.

John sighed, “Yeah, I know. But it felt - feels - important to do it now. A lot could change in a month away, in a month of not seeing you.”

“I don’t think any amount of time apart could change how I feel about you,” Sherlock murmured, and John’s chest inflated suddenly under him. Sherlock’s face heated and John got a hand around the mound of his shoulder to push, gently, far enough that they could look each other in the eye.

“I have to know, Sherlock,” John said, “And - I mean the kissing was a pretty good sign, but I don’t want to be reading this wrong because I don’t speak Sherlock.” He took a breath, steeling himself for his words, “Do you, um, have romantic feelings for me?”

Sherlock’s heart clattered in his chest, and his eyes unexpectedly stung. He blinked at John, a little rapidly in the middling light of the lamps outside, and John waited for him to swallow and find his voice.

“John,” he said, almost surprised at the deep rumble in his own voice, “My feelings towards you are decidedly not platonic, and have been for quite some time.”

John’s eyes widened at the admission, and Sherlock gave him a small smile as he watched John try to fight down a smile from breaking across his own face. “So that’s a yes, then?” he asked, hope bleeding into his voice.

“Yes, it’s a yes,” Sherlock almost rolled his eyes, but leaned forward to rub his nose against John’s instead, “And you…?”

“God, Sherlock, I’ve been in love with you since almost the beginning,” John burst out, laughing a little at himself, and Sherlock stared at him in shock.

John tilted his head, grinning at Sherlock’s expression, “You didn’t - I assumed you could see it at every turn, everything I did and said around you I thought was giving me away. You didn’t know?”

“No,” Sherlock said, mind whirling - _since almost the beginning_ \- and he sounded shell-shocked when he continued, “Any kindness you showed me I interpreted through a lense of friendship; you know you are the first I have come close to in a very long time. Besides which, my own emotional attachment meant that it would be too easy to see everything as my heart wanted it to-”

John cut Sherlock off with a kiss, petting the nape of his neck and tugging the collar of his dressing gown and tee aside to leave a kiss on the sensitive spot where his neck and shoulder met. “That’s awfully scientific of you,” John hummed, mouthing the spot and smiling against the skin when Sherlock gasped.

“Chemist,” Sherlock reminded him, fisting his fingers in the loose material of John’s sleep shirt, “Which does fall under the umbrella of scient-ahh.”

John chuckled, leaving one last kiss on Sherlock’s bared skin before tugging the material back in place and patting the damp spot cheerfully. Sherlock pouted at him, but couldn’t stay frowning for long at the expression of tender joy on John’s face, framed perfectly as he was by the gold light from outside and the serenity of falling snow.

The hands on his hips tightened their hold, and John looked unsure for a moment before saying, “Look, I know this is quick, because we were both berks and put it off until tonight, but - I’d really like to kiss you.”

The eager anticipation shining from John’s face drew another blush to Sherlock’s cheeks, and he only smiled, small but crooked and sincere, before ducking his face to John’s.

Even sitting on the sofa, legs locked together, there was still a bit of height difference between them, so Sherlock had to tilt his face down to capture John’s lips. Most of his height was in his legs, and he was lean muscle compared to John’s compact, dense weight, and the contrast between them was heady as their hands wandered and lips slid and caressed. It was weeks upon weeks of emotional tension being eased, like a pressurized valve broken and spilling steam into the cold room. Their lips were a hot point of contact, skin against skin, and Sherlock’s fingertips searched for more of - running down the length of John’s back, toying with and then delving under the hem of his shirt to stroke the skin of his lower back and hips. John tugged him forward until Sherlock was straddling his lap, and Sherlock couldn’t resist smirking into the kiss and rocking gently, testing; beneath him he found John half-hard and growing thicker under the thin material of his pajama pants, a firm line pressed against the underside of Sherlock’s thigh.

John made the kiss dirty, running his tongue along Sherlock’s bottom lip and tugging into his mouth to suck and nibble before Sherlock granted him entrance, and John stroked his tongue inside. It was slick and hot - hotter than he expected, though John was always the warmer of the two of them - and the writhing embrace of their tongues did much to increase his own arousal. The wet, smacking sounds as their lips met and parted again and again caused heat to coil low in his belly, and a low moan filled the quiet of the room. Sherlock was startled to realize that it was his, resonating from his own chest. A giddy, irrational part of his mind sang: he knew, oh, he knew it would be like this with John. It was perfect. John was perfect.

“Jesus,” John broke away, gasping, rocking his hips up into Sherlock, “Sherlock, if I had know that you could kiss- I’ve wait for so long to- ahh!”

John’s words became a gasp as Sherlock leaned forward to mouth at his neck, trapping their cocks between the weight of his body and John’s. It felt blazing hot, with layers of cloth between them as well, but Sherlock couldn’t resist the worn, stretched collar of John’s rumpled shirt. He pushed it aside to fix his mouth at John’s pulse point, licking and then sucking a bright red mark there on his throat. John whined, arching and flexing under him, his breaths now coming in pants.

“My sister will see that,” John said, aiming for reproachful but grinning when Sherlock pulled away and met his eye.

“It won’t last all of the holidays, but it can serve as a reminder until we see each other again,” Sherlock told him, grinning at the shiver that ran through John at the suggestion.

He tilted his head to bare the other side of his neck, “Better make it even, then. Aim for below the collar line, though. Make it _dark_.”

John’s pupils were blown wide as Sherlock sank down to kiss and suck a second mark, and as he increased the suction of his mouth Sherlock wormed a hand between them to palm the erection tenting John’s pajama bottoms.

“Oh, God,” John moaned, and Sherlock captured his lips in a fervent kiss. John gave as good as he got, his left hand stealing under the waistband of Sherlock’s pajamas and pants with a deft twist that left Sherlock keening into his mouth.

“I can feel how wet you are already, Christ,” John spread the precum beading at the tip of Sherlock’s cock down the shaft, slicking his movements though he had a limited range with his hand trapped in the layers of cloth. John winced at the tension it placed on his wrist. “Budge up for a second,  yeah?”

Sherlock was loathe to separate any further from John than he had to, but he sat up and lifted his hips so John could push his own pants down and expose his cock and -oh. He quickly shimmied out of his own pajamas and pants and then they were pressed together, root to tip, hot and hard and Sherlock couldn’t help but rock.

“John,” he moaned, and John anchored one hand on Sherlock’s exposed him and wrapped the other around both of their cocks, encasing them in a slick, firm grip that allowed Sherlock to thrust forward and grind them together. The friction was perfect, skin on skin and it wasn’t lost on Sherlock that it was _John_ below him, John spread out and looking at him like the was brilliant, John hard and groaning at the sight of their cocks moving in the grip of his hand, John making him feel so amazingly good.

“Gorgeous,” John groaned, squeezing Sherlock’s hip and urging him to thrust faster, harder into the circle of his hand, along the length of John’s own cock. The exposed glans was flushed red and perfectly shaped; it was drooling thick streams of precum onto John’s stomach, exposed by his rucked-up shirt, and Sherlock whined. He could almost imagine the taste and texture of it on his tongue, its weight and the strong scent of John he would find there - but that would have to wait until the next time; the little noises John was making at the back of his throat paired with the litany of words he couldn’t seem to stop were pulling Sherlock over the edge.

“John,” Sherlock tried to say, drawing out the vowel in a long, breathy sigh, “John, I’m-”

“Yeah, come on,” John grinned, thrusting up to meet Sherlock’s rocking tempo, their cocks slick in his broad palm, “Sherlock, yes, _Sherlock_!”

Sherlock came as his name fell from John’s lips, pushing one last time against John’s cock as his orgasm overcame him, bright and heady, waves of pleasure curling his toes and clenching the muscles in his thighs as he painted John’s stomach in white stripes. It only took two more strokes of his hand for John to follow him, voice high and loud as he groaned Sherlock’s name once again.

John’s stomach was slick and sticky with their combined come but Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to care, not when he felt so deliciously boneless, and he slumped on top of John, tucking his face between John’s neck and shoulder and kissing any skin he found. John’s heart was beating a steady, fast tempo in his chest, and after several moments of catching his breath, he looped an arm around Sherlock’s back and began to stroke up and down, trailing his fingers along Sherlock’s sweat-dampened skin underneath his shirt.

John cleared his throat, “That was - amazing, Sherlock.”

“You played no small part in it, John,” Sherlock replied, snuffling into John’s shoulder and breathing deeply, trying to absorb John’s smell into his memory, “ _Larger_ than I expected, even.”

“Oh,” John chuckled, and Sherlock could imagine the blush across his cheeks, “Um, ta. And you accuse me of making bad puns.”

“I saw the opportunity and _rose_ to the occasion,” Sherlock deadpanned, and John laughed and thumped him on the shoulder.

“Okay, really,” he laughed, “We need to get up and change before we end up fused together. Next time we’ll try to get out of all of our clothes first. And maybe get to a real bed.”

“Next time?” Sherlock sat up enough to look into John’s content, affectionate eyes.

“Of course next time,” John smiled, brushing a stray curl out of Sherlock’s face, “Don’t you want there to be?”

“Of course,” Sherlock parroted, “But a bed, John? Really? Where is your sense of adventure?”

John’s smile grew wicked, turned into a smirk, “The library, then? Next semester? Our little corner, late at night-”

Sherlock swallowed thickly, interrupting him quickly, “Anything - with you - is fine, John.”

John pulled him into a kiss, sweeter than any of the desperate, heady ones they had shared before.

“You know what?” he said, leaning their foreheads together, “It really will be.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> For fic updates and writing snippits, you can find me on tumblr as [venvephe](http://venvephe.tumblr.com/)


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